


Harlequin Romance

by ElleoftheBall



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman: White Knight (Comics)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Just Friends, Past Abuse, Past Relationship(s), Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:21:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27104134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElleoftheBall/pseuds/ElleoftheBall
Summary: He was better, now. Cured. And, they were friends.Sure, he proposed to her. And, he was still as funny and charming as ever - with the added benefit of trying to better himself.But, the spark had clearly faded. She and Jack Napier were merely partners, after all - surely, they'd keep it professional this time around ... right?
Relationships: Joker (DCU) & Harleen Quinzel, Joker (DCU)/Harleen Quinzel
Kudos: 16





	1. Chapter 1

The coaster stood idly on its track while the waves below the dock rumbled beneath her. The thing had gone unridden for a number of years – at least 10, if she remembered right – as did most of the park’s attractions, marred with grime and painted with rust.

It was thanks to him and the boys though, that some of the junk squatting on the abandoned Gotham fair grounds hummed to life again, filling the chilly autumn air with mechanical whirring and an out-of-tune campy melody. _The Laughing Devil,_ a red-painted chipper monstrosity beamed at her in the dark, filling her head with an eerie, synthetic, cartoonish-sounding chuckle.

Yeah, _that_ poor thing had certainly seen better days -- most of the paint had peeled from its surface to reveal a coal-black steely material underneath. Yellow eyes, once bright with glee, had been tainted by ugly splotches of machine oil, and – oh that _laugh!_

The little fool shook her head. For all the its faults, the fair had a sort of prettiness to it. The neon glow of multicolored lights seemed to throw starlight into the water below, spotting her vision like fireworks.

Fireworks.

He’d promised her fireworks before they’d driven here in almost complete silence, his fingertips tracing odd little patterns on the inside of her thigh, muttering ‘no questions’ each time she’d pipe up. It was a comfort, though.

The tone of his voice and his mannerisms lacked the sinister punch that usually meant more ‘fun,’ with a certain masked vigilante. The buzz left his veins two hours ago. The twitch beneath his skin was lulled into stillness – another grand scheme completed. 

But, he still smelled of gun powder. Of gasoline. The blood beneath his fingernails had barely begun to dry.

Once they arrived, he sent the rest of the boys around the park to work the rides, while leading her into a waltz she hadn’t been expecting. A few moments later, and their dance had become … rougher, more complicated. Her hand in his: she was spun, nearly knocked off her feet, twisted again and again in wide circles. 

Dizziness flooding her senses.

Her shoulder colliding softly with his chest.

His breath at her ear.

“Up for a game of hide-and-seek, pumpkin?” The half-whispered question came in the form of a growl. His teeth grazed the crook of her neck as he uttered the last syllable, and the dizziness was soon replaced with a delicious wicked warmth.

She nods, the salacious smile of a delinquent school girl spreading across her face.

“Then come find me.” 

Determined to pretend it had been a challenge, she found herself entering the House of Mirrors after a long few minutes. The entrance was narrow, gleaming with dust. Likely permitting no more than one occupant at a time during the fair’s heyday. Stepping inside, the pull of laughter met the edge of her lips.

The joke wasn’t lost on her this time: Puddin’ had a penchant for tight places, and it had been a while since Harley-girl had gotten a good revvin’!

**

No. No, this was wrong.

She shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t be thinking of … things.

She purses her lips, clearing her mind of the memory. A lone chicken tempura roll slathered in soy sauce is pushed to the edge of her plate.

She didn’t even _like_ sushi. This wasn’t right. She was supposed to be _helping_ him, moving the campaign forward, finding him a new doctor at Arkham who would – in turn – find a way to keep him from going off the deep end.

Yeah, that was it. The right cocktail of drugs and therapy – purely professional therapy – was all he needed. He was Jack Napier, now. A man hellbent on healing the wounds, jagged and bleeding, on the face of Gotham. And, she’d be the one to help.

They’d be friends. That was it.

There was nothing between them anymore. Nothing at all.

Yet – he’d _also_ been hellbent on taking her out – minus the guns and police chases. And, despite herself, she agreed.

They’d discuss the Backport campaign, he promised. No flowers, no flirting, no mention of a certain botched marriage proposal. All business, he said. Much like the way it was when they first met … but now, she considered – there were no ink blots, no word association to hide behind.

Now, it was just them.

**

“They’re coming to get you, Har-ley.”

A burst of wicked giggles erupts in her tummy; his voice follows her path from somewhere inside the labyrinth. Dark, ominous – silly! An homage to the 1968 classic _Night of the Living Dead._

“Stop it!” she shrieks back, nearly doubled over with laughter. “You’re …” What was her line again? “You’re acting like …” 

“They’re coming for you, Harley! They’re coming for you! Batsy, and the Boy Blunder, and Brat Girl, too!”

The voice is closer now, reverberating off the walls of the old attraction in a stream of delicious vibrations that reminded her of what – or, who – was to come. Which corridor was he hiding in? She wonders.

Light laughter rings in her head. High above the deep, dark pulsing between her legs. She stands in the five-sided room, covered in wall-to-wall glass. There were three entrances, she noted – plucking her cheeks and thrusting her tongue out, eyes skewed for the amusement of the mirror – one door to either side, and the one she had gone through. The odd, maze-like structure of the building meant plenty of prime hiding spots.

This was part of the game. He’d be found eventually. But, he was taking his time.

She taps her foot impatiently, groaning as the pulse continues, and deciding it was much too warm in here. She was suddenly thankful she had ditched her cowl on the pier.

Giving the mirror an ugly look, Harley whips her head away and pulls at the finger of the black glove with her teeth. She makes quick work of the costume’s zipper, sliding the material away from her skin, and sighing in relief as the air reached it – her body reacting to the cold.

**

“Are you cold?”

“Huh?” Her eyes find his face after darting from her plate to the edge of the booth. To the waiters as they passed, and back again. “Uh, y-yeah. Yes.” she replies, a weak smile lighting her face as she adjusts her glasses. It wasn’t a lie. She _was_ cold.

The cocktail dress left her back and shoulders exposed. Why had she worn this again? Was she trying to tempt him?

… No. No, of course not … her mind trailed off – though, maybe on some level she …

“Here.” He stands, jacket removed – draping it delicately over her shoulders, almost fearful that she would break. Afraid that if he touched her they would … (Stop it, Harl!)

She notices the hostess: a petite, young woman with deep brown eyes and thick dark hair, shining like fine fabric. She was pretty. Sexy, even. The kind of girl Harley _herself_ would take home. And, she was smiling.

Smiling at _him_.

Harley manages a weak laugh at the display, tucking a wisp of blonde hair behind her ear and jerking her chin in the girl’s direction when Jack looks at her confused. “Looks like you’re turning into Bruce Wayne.” she says, forcing another giggle. “I knew plastering that pretty face ‘a yours all over the news would spell trouble. You clean up good, Jack.”

“I don’t know about that.” he responses, flicking his wrist in the air. The hostess waves, blushes, and turns her eyes away – only to turn back to him a moment later, a toothy grin on her lips. “Well, ya got me there! I s’ppose I _do_ clean up good.”

“Don’t act so smug!”

“Oh- _hoh_!” he cries, pointing at her and leaping back in a false display of disbelief. “Me thinks the lady doth protest too much!”

“Don’t flatter yourself!”

“I’m hurt that you don’t remember, Harley: self-flattery is one of my many skills!”

“Well, we’re even then!” she shoots back, “I slipped up, I couldn’t remember one in your long list of talents, and _you_ forgot that I can’t stand fish!”

His grin falters, a slight blush coloring his face. “Yeah. I guess I did. … Listen, if you’re still hungry we can –!”

“No!” She’s shocked at how quickly the word bursts from her lips, “No.” she repeats, more calmly this time. “We don’t have to, it’s fine … it – it was delicious.” Their hands are close; she moves to take his as it rests on the table. But, stops herself.

“You sure?” His smile returning, “Because we can …”

“I’m sure. This was fine, absolutely perfect.”

“Okay …” He trails off, running a hand through his hair and gazing at her. Like a puppy dog. (Like her Puddy Tat.)

One eye is an electric violet. (Freakin’ violet!) The other’s green. A brilliant green.

“There’s a bar up the road.” He says, “You maybe, uh … wanna grab a drink?”

No! No. They hadn’t discussed Backport all evening.

“Sure! Why not?”

Well … What could one drink hurt?

**


	2. Chapter 2

**

Another groan as she glances in either direction beneath the sweet hum of the lights – fluorescent. Like the ones in Arkham. That night a round of word association began to include words like ‘bite,’ ‘suck,’ ‘lick,’ ‘fu—‘Where was he?!

“Mistah J?” She chirps. Crossing her legs, the way a child might outside a restroom, Harley chews her lower lip. She steps forward, peering around the corner into darkness, paying little mind to her distorted reflection. “Puddin’?”

Hearing no response, she trots back. Whirling around again, and tugging her right arm free, she slides the still gloved hand against her exposed skin. So close to the ache, to the dripping. She furrows her brow in confusion, and wails – pulling her lip between her teeth again and bringing the sound to a low whimper, remembering the words he’d spoken to her time and time again: “Good things come to those who wait, poo!”

“I’m done waitin’!” she cries, venting her frustrations to seemingly no one. Struck with an idea, she perks up. Turning toward the sound of footsteps, she plunges a hand beneath the bit of fabric still clinging to her body, and strokes at her clit with the tip of her pointer. Teasing herself with feather light, circular motions.

Having stepped from the shadows, he watches.

Mouth dry and agape, one million emotions break across his handsome face.

Aroused, love-drunk. Uncomfortable and enraged. She knew that look: The narcissist in him, the mad genius, always with more important matters to consider, had been bested – shoved aside in favor of an irksome human need – and it was none too pleased.

In its pleasured haze, Harley’s mind recalls the feeling of a broken nose. A naughty midnight dip below his belt after he dozed off in front of the television. The way it had gone horribly, horribly wrong.

**

“… Y’know …” she starts. She knows she shouldn’t – they were only friends, after all – why mention the past? But the gin on her tongue is heavy. Peeling forbidden thoughts off the walls of her skull. “You put me through a Hell of a lot.”

“I know.” he answers, sounding as if she’d slapped him. Sad eyes. His hands are folded loosely against the bar top; the booze has started to weigh on him too.

“You’d never believe the things I had to deal with, being with you. I lost my mind.”

“I know. I believe them.” His voice is soft, almost prayer-like. “Honestly, I don’t know how you can stand to look at me. Coming back to you, I nearly turned around and ducked into this place. I was an idiot to think you’d take me back so easily.”

“You were.” she agrees, downing her last drop of martini and chucking the olive in his direction, giggling.

He chuckles. “Not a fan of olives, either?”

“I like them plenty. I just figured you could use a laugh.”

“I guess so …” he says, trailing off before meeting her eyes. “Listen, Harl … I’m –!”

“Don’t. Don’t apologize. I _am_ a doctor after all: your psychosis – Batman, the outbursts, the mood swings, using love and – and _sex –_ as some sort of twisted power play. I – I _get_ that, Jack. But, after a while, I saw no reason to keep suffering because _you_ were at war with your own mind!”

“I’ll be your friend.” he says, eyes on fire. His hand reaching to grasp hers in spite of itself, weaving soft patterns against it with his thumb. “I promise, that’s all I’ll be.”

“You promise?” Eyes worried and wild, voice breaking like a child’s. “That’s all? My – my friend?” She looks as if the ice cream truck has just rounded the corner, fading out of site.

“Unless …” Hope is rising in his voice; the word is gentle. “Unless that’s not what you want?”

“I – you …” Harley sighs, her hand trembling violently in his grip. “Tossed out of a five-story window.” She starts, voice rising confidently, even as her heart peels open. “Thrown – thrown from a moving car. Hit in the face, slapped for any back talk, dragged through the city with a goddamn fractured knee. Beaten until I bled, Jack! I was beaten. Until. I. Bled!”

“I know.” he mutters, “I know.” The words are anguished. They’re lost in a symphony of sadness, of unfamiliar self-disgust.

“Because I loved you.” she says, sapphire eyes flashing with malice.

“Because you loved me.” he repeats amidst the confusion, as if hearing the words for the first time. “I couldn’t love you better, Harley. I wanted to. Believe me, I wanted to – but, I couldn’t.”

“There were times I felt so worthless, Jack.”

“You were never – if I could … I would _never_ …”

“But, you did.” She finished, looking at him pointedly, eyes shining like prisms.

“I did.” he releases her hand, brushing away a tear with the pad of his thumb as it rolls down her cheek. His throat is tight, burning. “You were never, _ever_ worthless to me. You _do_ know that don’t you, poo-bear?” He’s cupping her face, daring to brush that thumb against her lips.

**

For a long few minutes he stands still. The vexation in his face melts into a look that is unmistakably lewd, almost predatory. His tongue darts out to brush red-painted lips, and a rattled chuckle breaks from them. Eyes wide, he removes his jacket with an agonizing slowness, and begins to advance toward her.

“Puh—Puddin’ …” Harley sputters, yellow starlight clouds her vision as he draws closer. A sudden heat rises to her face when she glances down, realizing that her hand is still in its place. Stretching, pressing, and pushing against the inflamed bundle of nerves in a slow, circular kind of motion, unable to stop itself. 

His steps toward her are slow, calculated. The clicking of his oxfords is drowned out by the wet, heady sounds that fill the air – the euphoric whimpers that leave her throat uninstructed.

“My, _my_ Harley-girl!” His candy-coated tone is nearly drowned by her pulse. It’s both chastising and seductive – a gentle flutter in the way he says her name. “Someone’s certainly eager.” Her hips writhe greedily at the words; two of his buttons are undone. There are butterflies at the base of her skull now, and the pressure is almost – _almost –_ too good. But, her world won’t implode without him.

It won’t. It can’t. She’ll behave herself.

His fingertips trace the wet path, skating down her thigh. Then, with an agonizing slowness up, he meets her hand. Pushing, prompting another delicious wave of pleasure. Her knees buckle.

“Hm.” he purrs, a light laugh on his lips – his breath like fire at the nape of her neck, teeth pressing down lightly enough to burn. “Poo-bear …” he mutters, loosening his buckle, coiling a slim hand around her hip simultaneously. “Headed straight for the honey pot.” 

**

“Don’t you ‘ _poo_ - _bear_ ’ me!” she cries, anger breaking through the dull haze, the bright swelling in her chest. That pesky, old memory brought back to life by the drink – at the inappropriate time that was now. She stands, wiping her eyes, and taking several steps away from their table. He follows.

He pulls his lips into a thin line, searching her tear-stricken face for answers before muttering: “Puddin’?”

Her face contorts in an expression of shear disbelief; her cheeks suddenly feel very warm.

He panics. “Wait – no. I didn’t mean --!”

His chest sinks further as she turns away, and he sighs. “Look, Harley. It – this isn’t about _me_ anymore. It’s whatever you want from now on, alright? Whatever you want. _Whatever_ you want, it’s yours.”

She doesn’t answer, her back is turned to him. Her hands are braced at her shoulders, trying to find warmth, stability.

“So, what do you want?” he asks earnestly, stepping away, creating an agonizing distance between them. “Say anything, and I’ll give it to you. What do you want?”

Still no answer. She taps her foot lightly against the floor, watching the fabric of her dress sway in response.

“You wanna tell me you’re done? ‘Piss off, bozo. You blew your shot’? I’ll understand.”

She begins twisting her hips, pulling her lips closed.

“You wanna be friends?” he asks.

Silence.

“You want to try again?”

Still no answer.

She liked this song.

“I want – I wanna dance.” she says.

**

The room smells like the cigars he used to light. The honey-colored glow of lamps light up the bar. (So pretty!) The sun has just exploded, she reasons. Why else would it be so warm in here? There’s nothing but cigars, the soothing scrape of gin in her throat and –

His skin.

Smooth, unblemished, ivory white. It fills her senses: the light, sweet, sort of homey scent that lingers beneath their entwined skins. It was a smell she couldn’t attribute to anyone but him, pulling her into a blissful oblivion more intoxicating than anything this dive had to offer.

One hand cups her face as his tongue rolls against hers; the other strokes the exposed skin of her back. Gentle, deliberate, delicious. Flicking her tongue against the cupid’s bow of his upper lip, she wrenches their mouths apart. Delight and agony bursting to life simultaneously as her lips move to his jaw.

To his neck.

To his throat.

She laughs, thrilling at the strangled spiral of sound he makes as her ministrations continue. “P-Puddin,’ ah – I – H-Harley, we should …”

“We should what?” she asks, pulling away, twisting her hips wantonly against his arousal, and inviting a million and one memories of the way it felt. Her head swimming, eyes sweeping into her skull for only a moment before looking pointedly into his. “Stop?”

His eyes are dark now. Patches of neon coat near blackness – fireworks against a starless sky. His throat contracts, voice melting into that familiar potent purr that drove her crazy. “No.” he says, eyes darting to her kiss-stained mouth. “We should ...” He kisses her again; his fingers claim her hips. Pulling them in.

All words are lost as he rubs against her. He mimics her movements, siring an exquisite high, before shifting their weights. Flipping her into the bar top, muzzling a sound she hadn’t realized she’d been making.

A forgotten martini glass succumbs to the pull of gravity; her head falls slowly against the smooth wooden surface as he presses his lips to her jawline. “We should get out of here.”


End file.
